


Skin Deep

by Whatsastory



Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [8]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Tattoo artist!ian, Vague Mentions of Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23622058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: "My fucking fingers... I wanna get them covered up," he says, quiet and raspy."Can I take a look?" Ian asks and holds out his own hands so that Mickey can place his in their grasp.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668712
Comments: 31
Kudos: 314





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, 
> 
> Just wanted to say that this piece may be a bit darker than my usual. Nothing crazy happens, but there’s a bit of depression in my characters. Please keep yourself mentally safe! 
> 
> My next work will be back to happy and silly!

Mickey takes a drag off of his smoke, inhales deeply and lets it settle down into his lungs nice and deep before he blows it back out through his nose. He does it again and again before it's burning down to the butt and he stubs it out before tossing it in the nearest trash can. 

He sits down on the porch of his child hood home in an old chair that's probably too rotted to properly hold his weight, but somehow it doesn't buckle beneath him. He's sort of zoned out, having what some might call an out of body experience, or something of the sort. And it's stupid, really, to be torn up. Well, torn up isn't exactly the right word, but he ought to feel something over his dad's death, right? Normal people would feel... something. 

He thinks it over, thinks of the lack of... anything at all, really, and gives a quiet chuckle. The sound is foreign to his ears; miles away and hollow. Somehow, even after his death, his dad makes him numb. 

He stands up slowly and drags his hands down his face, and Jesus he feels like he's being a little dramatic now. Because standing right in front of the front door, he balks. Just stands there in the cold as his head swims around in a fine fog. 

This isn't the same Mickey that left this house and swore never to come back. He's grown now, and not just in age. He's a man. Though, arguably, he thinks, maybe not a very good one. But a man nonetheless, and a man takes care of his business. 

Mickey and Mandy are somehow the heirs to this throne of shit that Terry's left behind (he doesn't know why his brothers were left out of this 'fortune') and Mandy's already adamantly told him that he's on his own with this one. She'd rather die than come back to Chicago, let alone this house. He doesn't blame her. 

He pulls out his keys from deep in his coat pockets, all shiny brass and silver, save for one. The one that opens this door is old and worn, dirty and decrepit from years of abuse. Funny how he and a key have so much in common. 

Somehow, with only a little bit of playing with the lock, it works, and Mickey swings the door open and peers inside. He's hit immediately with the stale smell of disuse. His dad was in prison for a while before he died, and not one of his kids ever came to check on the place. It's a wonder it wasn't foreclosed on for some reason or another- and maybe he'll get lucky and the bank will come knocking on the door and tell him to beat it before he really has a chance to get a look around. 

The first step is the hardest, he tells himself, before he gingerly lifts his booted foot and presses it against the old wood of the floor. It squeaks under his weight, and he remembers all too well hating that sound as a kid. The sound that ratted him out time after time, alerting his dad to his presence. But there's no dad to worry for now. There's no nothing. Still, the sound makes his heart jump. 

The place is dusty on first glance. Swirls of who knows what floating in the pale light that shines through the windows that aren't covered in newspaper or dirt. On second glance, it's a pig sty, and he winces as he remembers it looking just like this. Filthy beyond all recognition as a home. It's no wonder he had the reputation of being the dirtiest white boy in the south side; he was. 

The living room has nothing salvageable. The furniture, the curtains, hell even the old fucking tv has to go. The dining room isn't any better. 

The kitchen stinks of rotten food and somehow, even now, the smell of stagnant beer permeates the air. It's probably better that he not even open the fridge; he'll tape it off and send it to the dump. The dishes, all crusted with god knows what sit in the sink just as they would back in the day- they can all be trashed, too. 

Funnily enough, the bathroom is the cleanest thing he's seen so far. And even funnier, there's still his brand of body wash on the edge of the tub where it always was. 

The back yard never was anything much. Really just a place to heap up the junk that Terry accumulated and decided he didn't want over time. Who knows how much of Mickey's shit is in that pile. He won't dig through it. He doesn't want it anymore. 

Mandy's room is just the same as he remembers it as well. Lived in, though not messy. He's been instructed to save any pictures that don't have their dad in it, but other than that, she doesn't want any of it. 

There's just two rooms left that he's yet to enter. His room and his dad's room. He chews on his lip as he looks between the two old doors. One with a sign that pleasantly asks everyone to "stay the fuck out," and one that's riddled with dents from angry fists. He chooses Terry's room first. 

To no ones surprise, there's a collection of glass bottles on every inch that could hold such an item. The bed's unkempt and the sheets are stained. There's cigarette butts and ashes for days. None of this surprises Mickey. What does, however, it's the small framed picture on the bedside table, proudly displayed next to a mostly empty bottle of Jack. 

Mickey picks it up and eyeballs it. Smiling, almost, at first. It's a picture of he and Mandy, small bright eyed, before life beat them down. Before their dad beat them down. Behind them stands their dad, looming over them and casting them in his shadow. Why he chose to keep this, Mickey doesn't know. 

He stares at it for a long while, still numb at first. But the longer he looks, the more he feels. Can almost hear his dad's voice as he sees his face, loud and clear and demented. Why, why would he keep this picture? He doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve to think of himself as a good man, a good father. As a person at all. 

Before Mickey knows what's happening, the frame is crushed under his shoe and his fist is in the dingy plaster of the wall. He pulls back and makes another hole, and then one more for good measure. 

He doesn't feel the pain of it, the physical pain, that is. He does, in fact, feel the pain of a repressed childhood (and that's putting it mildly). 

Maybe he envisions his father's face against the wall. Or maybe it's his own, he's not sure. He's only certain of the red hot blinding rage, an inferno behind his eyes. He lets the power of it propel him to his old room, much the same as he left it. 

He only takes a split second to look around before he's moving again. Climbing on furniture to rip down the old posters that barely cling to the walls. Tears them from their resting place and then tears them to pieces. They were never his ideologies; the hatred printed on them. They were gifts from his dear old dad. 

He must have been at the destruction for a while, because when he comes back into himself, he's sitting on his old broken down bed with tears streaming down his heated cheeks. When he feels them, he lets himself sob. Lets himself feel everything he didn't let himself feel back then. 

He cries himself hoarse, and then a little more. And then he's left with feeling nothing, once again, except the pain in his hand from hitting the wall. 

He glances down at his knuckles, bruised and bloody. Nothing is broken, save for the skin, and that's something he can take solace in. 

Except that he can't, not really, because beneath the gore is the permanent reminder of his dad. The tradition to tattoo himself and remind everyone of who he is. It was a stupid mistake, getting himself inked in such a way, one he hates very much. 

The next few days are a bit more freeing. He rents a couple of dumpsters and sets about tossing any and everything away. It takes a lot of effort. But with every bit of trash that's tossed, he feels a weight lifting from his shoulders. 

The next week, when he unloads the entirety of it, he walks back into the house... and he smiles. He really smiles. Laughs, even. Maybe sounds a little crazy cackling to himself in the ghost of his old home, but he's done it. 

He happily wipes down the windows, pleasantly surprised at how much sunshine is able to come in. He patches and paints the walls a bright white. Mops the floor until his shoes don't stick anymore. And it's... it's not a bad house. Homey, even. 

He buys new furniture. Not much, just a few essentials from a thrift store. He's not sure why he does it, he doesn't intend on staying for long. He’s hoping to sell this place to the first bidder, doesn’t matter how under market value it is. 

He sleeps in his old (new room) and for once, wakes up replenished. 

A few more days go by, and he makes even more progress, cleaning up the yard and goes so far as planting colorful flowers out front. A fuck you to Terry if there ever was one. All the colors of the fucking rainbow carefully and lovingly on display in front of his home. It makes Mickey happy. Really happy. 

And there's only one real thing he thinks he has left before he's fully purged himself of his dad. 

It's not a bad place, the tattoo shop closest to him. The walls are painted a bright green and previous work is artfully framed. It's clean and smells like bleach, and the fact that Mickey cares about that at all says a lot about the person he's become considering most of his tattoos came from prison. 

A woman comes from the back of the store with a wide smile and a rainbow of colors on her arms. She sidles you to Mickey as he looks at their work, though he already knows just what he wants. 

"You like what you see?" She asks as he stares transfixed. 

"Yeah. You guys are pretty talented." 

"Nah, that's not 'us.' That's all one artist. Ian. He's definitely the best one here," she says a little dreamily.

"Well, lucky for you, I don't want anything elaborate. You got time for a walk in?" 

"I don't. But, lucky for you, I think Ian actually does. Let me go grab him for you." 

Mickey continues looking on in awe at the drawings and pictures of completed pieces on the wall, mesmerized by the lines and shading and detail. He's something of an artist himself, though he wouldn't call himself that, but this is something else. This is pure raw talent. 

"Hey man," he hears from behind him. "Marissa said you want a little work done?" 

Mickey turns around. If he thought the drawings were art, it's nothing compared to the man standing in front of him. In true tattoo artist fashion, he's got an array of colors splashed from his wrists up to beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and from what Mickey can see, it must follow along his chest because it peeks up against his neck. He's pierced, too, but not overly so. Just one on his lower lip and smallish gauges in his ears. He's topped off with slicked back red hair, though red isn't quite the right word, and the water color on his skin has nothing on the natural shades that make him up. 

"I..." Mickey gapes like an idiot, like a complete moron. He'll choose to chalk it up to the emotional upheaval he's gone through in the past few weeks, and not his lizard brain taking over. "Yes." 

"Okay," the guy smiles. "Wanna follow me back to my station?" 

Mickey nods and follows blindly, and settles down into the proffered chair when they reach Ian's area. 

"So I'm Ian," the guy, Ian, says, and offers a hand. Mickey shakes it and nods, before remembering himself. 

"Mickey." 

"Cool. Nice to meet you. Can I do for you, Mickey?"

Mickey stares down at his hands, at the marks that have been there since he was sixteen. It's been well over ten years, and the ink has long since feathered out. But the words are still clear as day. Mean and aggressive and downright ridiculous if you really think about it. He smiles, barely, even though he feels a sting in his eyes. 

"My fucking fingers... I wanna get them covered up," he says, quiet and raspy. 

"Can I take a look?" Ian asks and holds out his own hands so that Mickey can place his in their grasp. 

Ian looks over each finger, twisting them from side to side as he takes them in. His lips scrunch as he does it, like he's fully analyzing and making a plan of attack before Mickey even tells him what he wants. 

"What're you thinking? I can't go too elaborate on such a small space, but I'll definitely give it a try. I like a challenge," he says confidently and his smile shifts into a sly little grin. 

"Won't be much of a challenge, I don't think. I want... I want a date." 

"Oh you do, do you?" Ian winks, and Mickey breathes out through his nose in a soft snort. This guy. 

"Hah, shut up, man," he grins back, feeling somehow comfortable enough with this new guy to take a joke and roll with it. "I mean an actual date. I want the numbers to be over top of the letters. I know the words will still be visible, but I want the numbers to be also. As a reminder..." He feels himself starting to choke up a little, so he doesn't say anything more. 

"A reminder for what?" Ian asks, voice so soft it feels like silk. 

"It's not important. But uh, the date is 04/15/2023. Month and day on the right hand, year on the left. Do you think you could do that?" 

"Yeah. That'll be easy enough. But I gotta tell you, I don't think it'll look all that good. It's all going to bleed together at some point." 

Mickey smiles again. "Perfect." 

Ian clicks his tongue and raises his eye brows but nods his understanding anyway. He prepares his tools, mixes up the black ink and puts dark black gloves on his hands. 

"Alright, put 'em up here." 

Mickey does and Ian clicks on the pen, the quiet vibrating sound relaxing Mickey as it drones on. It doesn't hurt, not really, so he's able to tune it out. What he focuses on instead are Ian's tattoos. 

They're all colorful. Bright and pastel splotches of simulated paint, which doesn't really make sense because the black outlines of each piece, that meld together so well, are of monsters. Some are grotesque with fangs and gaping wounds. Others are more 'normal,'; octopi and squid, though even they have admittedly dark human features. They're captivating, in the strangest way. But confusing, and that really only piques Mickey's interest more. 

"Your uh, your sleeves, man. Fuck they mean?" He asks and nods his head to Ian's arms. 

"Ah," Ian smiles. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." 

Mickey contemplates. He didn't really plan on explaining it to anyone- no one that didn't already know. But something about Ian, about the way he holds himself and presents himself- something about him in general has Mickey spitting out the words before he can stop himself. 

"'S the day my dad died."

Ian's just put the finishing touches on the '3'. The last number on Mickey's left pinkie. He turns his machine off and sits back, surprise written all over his face. He wipes Mickey's knuckles off, clears them of ink and the small amount of blood that's come out, and sits back in his seat. 

He eyes Mickey, making him a little uncomfortable, but Mickey stares back undeterred. Ian chews at the inside of his cheek as he watches, and Mickey wishes more than anything that he could read thoughts. Even more so when Ian says, 

"You wanna grab a drink, Mickey?" 

The bar Ian's chosen is just across the street from the parlor, nice and convenient. Mickey's not sure why he'd agreed, but he'd done so quickly and without thought. 

"So, you live around here?" Ian asks once they've each gotten a frosty glass and a pitcher of Miller to split. 

"Nah, man. Used to. But I live in St. Louis now. I'm just back in town because... well, I already told you my dad died. Have to take care of some shit, y'know?" 

"Ah, so not a pleasure trip, then." 

Mickey snorts and takes a gulp of his drink. "Definitely not." 

They sit in amicable silence for a while. It's not at all uncomfortable, and Mickey would maybe even go so far as to say it's 'nice.'

"The date... was only last month. I'm sorry about your dad," Ian tells him sincerely. 

"Don't be. He was a prick. It's not a tribute." 

Ian sputters into his drink, a nervous little laugh coming out with the beer. 

"Alright," Ian says, smile as wide as it has been all night. "Fuck him, then." 

"Fuck him," Mickey agrees and raises his glass.

It's been a while since Mickey's felt this good. That's not to say he hasn't been doing well in St. Louis, because he has. He's got a steady job, though it's just construction, but it pays for his small apartment and shitty little truck. He goes to bed with food in his belly and wakes up to hot water and clean clothes the next day. He's existing. 

Maybe it's got something to do with the pitchers of mediocre beer he's out down, but he thinks it mostly has something to do with Ian. Ian, who's funny and nice, and witty. He's smart and charismatic, but above all else, he listens. 

"So it's not a tribute," Ian edges. It's close to last call and Mickey doesn't want the night to end. 

"It's not a tribute." 

"So then what is it?" 

"No, no, no," Mickey says. "You first." 

Ian nods his assent, palms up and eyes closed. 

"Okay. That's fair. Alright, uh..." he looks around for anyone looking at him, but no one is, so he lifts his shirt and lets Mickey take in the way the tattoos of monsters on his arms connect to those on his chest. 

"I have bi polar. You ever heard of that?"

Mickey nods. He might not be a fucking rocket scientist, but he's not stupid, either. 

"Okay. So these guys," he says and points with his free hand to his opposite arm with a flourish, "are... I guess you could say my demons? But that makes me sound fucking weird so let's call them... obstacles. They're my obstacles. I went through a lot of dark shit to get where I am now. Hallucinations- delusions. Mood swings. Drug addictions. Time in jail, right? When I was younger, nothing seemed right, which is why they're colored like that. Like when I was on my upswings, I saw the world through rose colored glasses, okay? That make sense?" 

Mickey nods again, completely enraptured by Ian's words. 

"Okay, so they're the world as I saw it back then. And then this," he points to his chest piece and runs a single finger over the ink. Mickey watches intently as he moves, traces both his finger and the deep lines of the tattoo. "This is me. Me... keeping myself. Being who I am despite all of this. I dunno, man. It is what it is." 

It's... wow, it's something. The chest piece is of a heart. Anatomically correct, from what Mickey can tell. It's big, and it's colored in deep reds and blues, just as one would expect it to look. It's almost like seeing a page out of a medical textbook, but upon closer inspection, it very clearly isn't. 

It's wrapped in black. Black... barbed wire? It's a heart wrapped in black barbed wire. The tentacles and claws from the pictures on his arms reach out to it, trying to wrap themselves around it and squeeze it. But they're bleeding and cut. The wire protects it and keeps them away. 

Mickey stares with his mouth open, reading the story that's printed without words. He's in awe. None of his tattoos mean shit. They're all... they're just bullshit. But this, this is a masterpiece. 

"Got a pair of titties on my back, too. But that's another story for another day," Ian says after a beat with a flashy smile and shrug of his shoulders. Mickey laughs, and so does Ian. 

"Those are beautiful, man. I mean it. And I don't usually say pussy ass shit like that," Mickey tells him, and he means it. 

"Thanks," Ian says and shifts his eyes down to his fingers dancing on the table top before he meets Mickey's once more. 

"Okay, it's your turn. Tell me about this dark, depressing shit." 

Mickey looks to his own fingers, traces delicately along the saran wrap that protects the fresh ink. Chews on his bottom lip and breathes before he finally says,

"It's not dark. It's the day I became free." 

When last call comes and goes, they settle the tab down the middle and head for the door. With each step, Mickey's heart sinks down a little further. He wants to find a way to keep Ian talking. Who the hell knows why, but he needs it like he needs air. 

"Well, was nice meeting you, Mick," Ian says and tucks his hands in his pockets. "Hope everything works out for you the way you want it to." 

He turns to leave, and Mickey panics. 

"Hey, you do commissions?" 

"Commissions?" 

"Yeah, like. Uh, can you paint?" He sounds like a bumbling idiot, but he'll blame that on the alcohol. 

"Uh, yeah. Sure. You have something in mind?" 

Mickey's mind races, and then lands on the perfect thing. 

"A mural. Paint a wall in my dad's... in my house." 

Ian's brows knit together as he thinks it over. He doesn't think long. 

"Sure. You know what you want it of?" 

Mickey smiles, feels a little foolish. 

"No idea. But I'll pay you." 

Ian laughs, but it's not at Mickey, he can tell, and that makes him feel better. 

"You're gonna give me artistic license on a whole wall?" 

"If you want." 

"Okay. Yeah, sure. I can do that. Give me your number. We can set something up."

~

Ian sits on the floor in Mickey's father's old room, cross legged with his elbows on his knees and his palms against his cheeks. He's been staring at the wall for a good while now, his eyes dancing across the giant canvas. 

Mickey hangs back, leans against the door frame with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He's staring at Ian. 

"Anything coming to you, yet, Picasso?"

"Not unless you want a giant dick plastered up there," Ian tosses over his shoulder.

Mickey snorts a laugh that turns into a cackle, and Ian looks pleased at himself for having drawn such a reaction. 

"As much as I'd love that just to fucking shit on my homophobe dead dad, I think I'd like something a little more fucking natural in here." 

"He was a homophobe?" Ian asks innocently and Mickey bristles. 

It's not that he's not out- he has been for a decade now, it's not something that he's ever talked about in this space, for fear of having it beaten out of him; and actually having it beaten out of him once. And it's strange that this house, this empty shell of a home can make him feel small and scared again. He guesses he didn't cleanse the house quite well enough of Terry. 

But Terry's dead now. And he can probably take Ian in a fight if he has to. So. Fuck it. 

"Yeah. Hated the fuck out of me," he says and eyes Ian warily. 

Ian looks at him over his shoulder, up and down, blinks, and then smiles. 

"Okay. Pride flag, then?"

Mickey's finding that he laughs a lot with Ian. 

"Nah, man. Nothing that fucking flamboyant. But, I dunno. I'm starting to like colors a little more." 

Mickey and Ian sit on the steps of his childhood home, knees knocking together occasionally, and each with a cigarette burning between their fingers. It's another moment of peace, comfortable and calm. 

"Like the flowers," Ian says after a while, gesturing to Mickey's little garden. "Guessing that wasn't pops?" 

"Nope. That's all me. Know fuck all about plants, but..." he shrugs. 

"I get it. Kind of makes the place feel alive or some shit, right?" 

And yeah, that's a good way to put it. 

Mickey and Ian meet a couple more times, to talk, so that Ian can get to know him. It’s nothing extravagant (a couple of beers one night, and a pizza another), but Mickey finds himself opening up to Ian. Tells him about his childhood, learns about Ian’s. And he finds that there’s a closeness in shared sorrow. 

It’s a few weeks before Ian finally shows up one day with gallons of paint and a bucket full of brushes and rollers. 

"I know what I'm doing," he says proudly. "But you're not allowed to see it until I'm done. Okay?" 

"You're not gonna give me at least a hint?" Mickey asks as he steps away from the door to let Ian in. 

"Yeah, you can have a hint. It's got color. And that's all I'm going to say about it. You okay with that?" He asks as he sits his supplies down and pokes Mickey lightly in the chest. 

Mickey grabs the finger poking him, unsure of what he's really doing, smiles and in almost a whisper, says,

"Sure, Ian. I trust you," before he lets it go and backs out of the room and closes the door. Ian makes him do strange things, apparently.

Mickey's outside on the porch, probably his favorite place in the whole house, when Ian emerges a few hours later. His white t-shirt is splattered with paint, as are his hands and a little bit in his hair. He's flushed and a little sweaty, but he looks good. He looks too fucking good in the orange cast light of the bearing sunset, and for a moment, Mickey can't think of anything to say. 

"Made good progress, but I think it's gonna take me another few days to finish," Ian informs and steps up to take the cigarette from Mickey's fingers before smirking and sinking it between his lips.

"Sure, you can have that. Wasn't fucking smoking it or anything." 

"Thanks, Mick. Knew you'd understand." 

"So I really can't go look at it?" 

"Nope. Not 'til it's done." 

"And who's to say I won't just go fucking look when you leave?" 

"Me. Because I trust you, too. Asshole." 

True to his word, it's another few days before Ian is ready to show Mickey his work. And when he is, he's down right giddy with excitement.

“Okay, okay. You’ve gotta, you’ve gotta cover your eyes,” Ian nearly shouts. “Here, let me!” 

Before Mickey can say anything, Ian is behind him and cupping Mickey’s eyes with his paint covered hands. He’s close, really close, warm and present at Mickey’s back. 

“Is this okay?” He breathes against the back of Mickey’s neck when he feels Mickey stiffen beneath his touch. Mickey can’t really find it in him to form words, so instead he just nods and lets himself be lead through the living room and into his dad’s old room.

“Here we are. You ready?” 

Ian takes his hands from Mickey’s eyes, and it takes Mickey a moment to open them, and another few seconds to adjust to the golden rays of warm sunshine coming in through the open window. 

He’s struck temporarily immobile, overstimulated from the smell of paint, the warmth of Ian’s body still pressed close to him, but most importantly, it’s the colors. There’s... fuck maybe there’s all of them. Mickey doesn’t know. 

It starts with grey. A gunmetal-type color, dull and listless near the bottom. They’re shackles, Mickey realizes. Broken shackles. That leads up into green. A multitude of shades; lime, yellowed mustard, forrest and maybe even a few blends of blue. It takes him a moment to realize what he’s seeing, but when he does, his breath hitches. It’s a man, or more accurately, it’s the vague shape of a man. It’s twisted vines and leaves all wrapped up and braided together to form a powerful figure with the broken shackles near his feet. 

Flowers bloom around him, from him, from the vines. Pretty, dainty little flowers that are portrayed in whites, pinks, reds and yellows. The colors are varied and different, but they compliment each other in the most amazing way. 

His eyes continue up the vined man, past his torso and chest, past his shoulders and to his head. Where there would be hair on an actual person, there’s deep magenta petals that frame his ‘scalp.’ 

His arms are raised above his head, toward the blue and orange background of the sky, palms outstretched to the heavens. In his palms, are yet another type of flower, growing strong and bold and yellow and happy. 

Mickey stands stock still as he looks, mouth agape, his own hands opening and closing as he focuses. 

“So, these little flowers,” Ian says and steps forward to point to the flowers on the trunk of the body, “are bellis daisies. They represent rebirth. And these, these here near his head, they’re uh, they’re lillies. They’re for freedom.” Ian’s talking a mile a minute, excited and maybe a little nervous? 

“And these coming out of his hands,” Ian says and reaches up to point, “these are my favorite. They’re daffodils. They represent rebirth. A chance to change, you know?... do you...” he says and finally turns toward Mickey, smile falling from his face as he takes him in. 

“Oh. You don’t like it? Shit. Okay, I’m sorry. I can do something else...” 

“No,” Mickey finally finds his voice, though it’s small and rough. “No, Ian. This is, fuck, this is... amazing. It’s... Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

Mickey’s voice seems to have gone missing again, and it’s so frustrating that he can’t say what he... he can’t find the words to... it’s just so much... it’s a work of art. It should be in a museum. It’s...

“Is he me?” He asks despite even realizing that it was a question that he had. 

Ian’s hand cups the back of his neck and his tongue pokes out of his lips before he says, “...yeah, Mick. He’s you.” 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes and feels the warm slide of a tear dripping down his cheek. 

He doesn’t wipe it away, doesn’t really pay it any mind at all, which for him is kind of a big deal. But he can’t think of anything right now other than... Ian. The colorful boy with the colorful story and the sad smile on his face. 

Mickey moves before he can second guess it, lets his muscles pull him forward, forward, forward until he’s standing in front of him. Let’s his arms move to wrap themselves around Ian’s neck. Let his toes tip him upward. And then lets himself be kissed. 

It’s two years later and Mickey lays on his stomach in his warm, cushy bed, in the house he couldn’t bring himself to sell in the end, in his father’s old bedroom that he now calls his own. 

A finger traces along his back, against the lines that make up a vined man reaching for the sky with daffodils growing from his hands, and broken shackles at his feet. 

“Have I told you that you must have had a great tattoo artist to bring this to life on your skin, Mickey?” The words are whispered against Mickey’s ear before a soft kiss is pressed to his neck. He grins and rolls his eyes. 

“Have I told you that you’re a cocky mother fucker, Ian?”


End file.
